


Not Everything Happens Quickly

by OnlySlightlyObsessed1



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 5k to 15k, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Relationship Negotiation, Worry, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26362711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlySlightlyObsessed1/pseuds/OnlySlightlyObsessed1
Summary: If Spock could only put the incident from his mind and focus on his work, he would be content. He did not have infinite time to spend on personal reflection.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 20
Kudos: 116





	Not Everything Happens Quickly

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [Science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencebluefeelings) and [Kisaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisaru) for your input on this and for letting me ask you too many questions <3  
> Happy Star Trek Day
> 
> I'm not remotely an expert in Vulcan so I did my best to google things, all the translations are in the end notes.

It was not a transporter malfunction. Mister Scott had spent twenty four hours checking and re-checking every possible permutation of events and failures, but there had been none to explain the landing party’s disappearance. Although, as neither Doctor McCoy nor Ensign Lineas had made it to the planet’s surface, perhaps ‘landing party’ was not an accurate term. 

Mister Scott cut the intercom connection and Spock returned to his console with a strange sensation of heaviness. 

“Then what could have happened to them?” Jim demanded.

“My suspicion grows more likely to be correct,” Spock said. “Lieutenant Uhura’s discovery of the time anomaly is not coincidental. I believe the transporter beam is ‘caught’ so to speak, within that anomaly.”

“It’s been a full day,” Jim said. “How do we know if they’re still alive? Can they even breathe?”

Spock weighed his options before answering. It would be cruel to give Jim false hope, and worse still to crush it completely. “If my hypothesis about the nature of the anomaly is correct, they are not within the passage of time. There is no time for them to materialize, and therefore, there is no time in which they might take breath, but that is not of great concern, for there is also no time for their bodies to need oxygen.”

“Can you get them back?”

“I will do everything in my power, Captain,” Spock said. He had spent the previous night engaged in testing and analysis with Mister Scott. Already he was calculating how long he could maintain optimal performance without breaking for sleep or meditation.

“I expect nothing less, Mister Spock.” Jim stood and turned to go. “Consider all resources at your disposal. And, good luck.”

But the third artificial dawn broke, and Spock was no nearer to a solution. It occurred to him that he ought to pause his investigation, perhaps indulge in a brief period of meditation, or even of discussion with the other science officers or Jim, but the thought of leaving his instruments and his study brought with it an unacceptable spike of anxiety. He was in greater need of mediation than he had realized, but his hands, when he looked down, were steady.

The fourth day forced him to face the chilling prospect that McCoy, along with Ensign Lineas, might indeed be lost to them. It was possible, and growing more likely every hour Spock failed to find a way to bring him home, that they would be forced to abandon their efforts and move on with the next assignment, leaving McCoy just another member of the crew lost to the dangers of a deep space mission. It was a viscerally disturbing thought.

Jim would be expected to hold a service in his memory, while still himself in grief. They would be expected to continue with their mission largely unaffected during work hours. He and Jim would consult with each other, and the medical staff, to determine McCoy’s replacement. Spock caught his breath, and quickly scolded his body into projecting a cooperative calm physical appearance. It was illogical that that thought should cause him any more distress than any other, it was an inevitable outcome, should they fail to retrieve McCoy, and yet Spock could not bring it to conclusion.

It was inconceivable that the  _ Enterprise _ should be under the care of a different doctor. It was frighteningly uncomfortable to imagine receiving care from another doctor, which was absurd. Doctor M’Benga, the nurses, and other medical staff had a hand in treating Spock as often as Doctor McCoy did, and before meeting any of them he had received perfectly adequate care from numerous other professionals.

“Spock.”

He had not heard Jim enter. Without his permission, his head turned sharply, suddenly, to his friend in the doorway.

“Sorry, if I’m interrupting.”

Spock looked back down at the computer station in front of him, it and his PADD had both gone to sleep while he had been lost in thought. Unacceptable.

“You are not,” he said, and Jim came to sit down across from him. He looked tired, psychologically and physically, for in humans the two frequently came together. McCoy’s absence was especially hard on him. The ship would suffer McCoy’s loss in more ways than the adjustment period in sickbay; humans could not contain their grief or worry to their off hours.

“Any luck?” Jim asked, he did not attempt a smile, and that fact was worthy of greater concern than Spock felt himself capable of. Jim required McCoy’s safe return for his own emotional well-being. Spock had no choice but to bring him back, a task at which he was failing.

“No,” he said. Yesterday, and the days before, when Jim had asked, he had said, “Not yet.”

The exhausted expression on Jim’s face did not change, but he closed his eyes briefly. Spock said nothing. After another moment, Jim rubbed a hand over his face and said, “I should never have let him beam over without me.”

“Our task then would be to retrieve you both, along with Ensign Lineas,” Spock said. The muscle in Jim’s jaw clenched, and Spock realized that his statement had been insensitive, not the comfort Jim had been seeking, nor the acknowledgement of his distress he needed.

“I shouldn’t have beamed him, or anyone, over at all until I knew it was safe,” Jim said, his tone sharp and biting. He stood to leave without looking at Spock again.

“You are not at fault, there was no reason to delay beaming,” Spock said to Jim’s back, but somewhere inside him, deep within the carefully constructed dams and levees that controlled the lakes and rivers of his emotions, an angry current swirled murmuring,  _ No, no you should not have. _

In the early hours of alpha shift on what was then technically the fifth day, Spock handed Mister Scott the PADD with his updated calculations. They were alone in the computer lab, although a simple push of a button would bring the nearest ensign to assist them, they had passed the point of facilitating idea generation. If continued tests found nothing, they were approaching the end. 

Scott stood so suddenly his chair fell backwards. Spock was exhausted, days behind on meditation, and lost in his thoughts. He startled. 

“I think—” MisterScott was pushing buttons frantically at the main computer console. “Mister Spock I think—”

“What is it?”

Scott gestured for Spock to observe at his shoulder. “Look here.” 

Spock looked. Mister Scott held the PADD up in anticipation of his need to cross check.

“It’ll take a moment to set up,” Scott said, excitement animating him in a way none of them had been for days, “but I think we’ve got it.”

—

There was McCoy, standing healthy and whole, materialized on the transporter pad with the Ensign, looking mildly confused as Jim threw himself forward crying “Bones!”.

McCoy, who had experienced no time at all and had no idea what prompted Jim’s fierce embrace, or the naked, relieved, exhaustion on Mister Scott’s face, no way of even guessing that something within Spock had broken and collapsed to see him again, wrapped hesitant arms around Jim and caught Spock’s eye. His gaze was questioning, and rightfully so, he had been expecting to arrive on the planet’s surface, but Spock was afraid to move or speak lest he throw himself at McCoy as Jim had done.

There was no helping himself, when McCoy stepped down from the platform and drew near to him and Mister Scott at the control panel, he placed a hand on McCoy’s arm briefly.

“Though the statement may seem meaningless from your perspective, welcome back Doctor.”

—

“So I was really missing for almost a whole week and you didn’t tell Jim to just give it up, head on to the next mission?” Doctor McCoy asked, smiling in amusement. Of course, his statement was a joke, in line with their usual pattern of conversation.

Spock knew in its own very subtle way it was also meant as thanks, but it tore through him, with all its jagged edges, catching, and widening the hole that had opened up when he had been forced to consider the possibility of McCoy’s permanent loss.

He said, “No,” and nothing more.

McCoy’s smile and good mood faded slightly.

“No, of course not,” he said quietly, absently, “and I do appreciate it, your getting me out of there.”

Spock felt as though he were choking on all the many things he had wished to say to McCoy in the week he had been gone, but he managed to speak through them. “Yes, I believe the phrase is, you’re welcome.”

The amused smile returned, aimed at him, polite and friendly, and that thought too, twisted within him uncomfortably.

“I see someone taught you manners while I was gone.”

—

Even Jim recovered from the incident remarkably quickly. The  _ Enterprise _ completed her study of the temporal anomaly and forged ahead to her next mission, leaving Spock grasping and confused.

—

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick,” McCoy said, almost off hand when Spock arrived for his physical. “Hop up here for me.”

Spock wished to reassure him that he need not apologize for doing his job, that he was within his rights to keep Spock in sickbay as long as he needed to complete a physical, without rushing. He said nothing and McCoy did not seem to notice, absorbed as he was with his biobed scanners and the various readings they were supplying.

“Any problems to report today?”

“None, Doctor.”

McCoy’s eyes flitted over him, and back to the readouts. He frowned. “Have you been sleeping alright?”

“I have been achieving adequate rest each night,” Spock said. It was not an answer to McCoy’s question, because the answer was “No,” and Spock did not wish McCoy to ask him about it.

“That’s not what I asked,” McCoy said, eyes fixed on Spock now, frown deepening. Spock had been foolish to think he could evade McCoy’s keen professional concern.

“I have recently decided to meditate longer each night, and sleep for fewer hours. I am achieving the same amount of rest, Doctor.”

“How many fewer hours?” McCoy asked.

“I sleep for an hour each night,” Spock said, and he could not hold McCoy’s gaze as he said so. He focused on the shelving in the background.

“An hour? For god’s sake, why?”

Spock only blinked at him. There was no appropriate way to explain he was troubled by the week McCoy had spent out of time’s grasp and lost to them.

“Well as your doctor I’m ordering you to stop! Go back to your normal schedule, it’s wreaking havoc with your hormones, and the next time when we run into some kind of emergency you don’t want to be exhausted already.” McCoy made several notes, irritated exasperation practically seeping from his skin. Spock merely nodded.

“If there’s no current emergency on the bridge perhaps you’ll be willing to go through a stress test for me,” McCoy said, no less exasperation in his tone.

“If you require it,” Spock said, which was also not an answer. It earned him a strange look from McCoy, but the Doctor was apparently inclined to take advantage of Spock’s cooperativeness. He was still watching Spock with the same thoughtful look when Spock left.

—

“Bones is worried about you,” Jim told him while they set up the chess board, “he says you’re acting strangely.”

Some unidentifiable emotion flashed through him, an inappropriate and unacceptable reaction to a perfectly normal, if unexpected, statement. Spock said, “He is irritated that I adjusted my sleep schedule without first consulting him.”

The glance Jim shot him was part amusement part confusion. “Yes, I was supposed to ask you if you’re quite alright.”

“I am performing my duties adequately, Captain.” Such a vague reply was certain to invite more questions.

“No one’s saying you’re not,” Jim said, tone light, purposefully nonthreatening, “I just wondered if you wanted to talk about it, whatever’s bothering you, that is.”

Spock calculated the likelihood of Jim dropping the subject should Spock decline his offer—quite low, considering he was apparently acting under orders, official or not, from McCoy—and then said, “Had we been unable to recover Doctor McCoy from the temporal anomaly, the ship would have required a new Chief Medical Officer.”

Jim sat back, abandoning the board set up all together. “Go on.”

“The thought disturbed me.”

He met Jim’s gaze, unsure what else to say, and reluctant to admit the full extent of his concern. Jim was frowning, either thinking over Spock’s statement, or waiting for him to continue. Spock did not necessarily wish to admit his failings to Jim, but Jim would have valuable insight, as he always did.

“Bones is a fine doctor, we’re lucky to have him on board,” Jim said eventually, “but I don’t think the possibility that the  _ Enterprise _ would have needed a new ship’s surgeon is keeping you from sleeping two weeks after the fact.”

Spock was not sure where he had implied the change in his sleep schedule was anything but voluntary, but Jim was perceptive as ever, and it seemed Spock was not going to be allowed to obfuscate. “I am unsure why that particular consequence of McCoy’s loss inspired such a strong reaction in me, Captain.”

Jim said, “Maybe because he’s your friend, and you were worried he was dead, or as good as, and it was up to you to save him.”

“Those facts were known to me from the first day we began attempting rescue,” Spock replied.

The room fell silent again as Jim continued to watch him. Spock did not know how to explain what he himself did not understand.

“When did you become ‘disturbed?’”

“The fourth day.”

Jim’s face crinkled up into something sympathetic and kind. Spock did not like it. “Sometimes it takes a little while for things to sink in, and if I remember correctly, we had all but exhausted our options by then. If I may, it’s  _ logical _ that it would hit you then.”

Spock said nothing, and after a moment, Jim continued. “Forgive me for saying so Mister Spock, but I think the good doctor is more important to you than either of you quite realize.” He leaned forward and smiled. “A replacement ship’s surgeon might not be so keen to argue with you.”

“You have recovered from such stress,” Spock pointed out. Jim did not seem inclined to be gentle with his dignity, and any attempt to evade would only lengthen the conversation.

“I cried my eyes out that fourth night he was gone,” Jim said, “and then the next day by lunch you and Scotty had some brilliant plan put together, and by oh-two-hundred hours you’d brought Bones back. We just deal with stress differently, that’s all.”

“I do not believe ‘crying my eyes out’ would be a particularly useful method of releasing stress in my case, Captain,” Spock told him, trying not to let the disapproval creep into his tone. Jim looked even more amused than before, so Spock figured he had not been as successful as he had hoped.

“I wasn’t suggesting it. I know you don’t buy into any healthy release of emotion, Spock, but what is your strategy?”

Spock wasn’t sure how he had managed to get himself into a position where Jim felt the need to criticize his stress management as they failed to play chess, but he understood that McCoy and Jim expected some result from this planned intervention, whether Spock liked it or not. “Each night during meditation, I catalogue the emotions I have experienced over whatever given period of time, acknowledging each individually and allowing them to leave me.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The feeling defies categorization, and it will not leave. I have spent more time with my meditation, but I have been unsuccessful,” Spock admitted.

“And you can’t just,” Jim gestured with his hands, spreading them wide, “feel it?”

“I am ‘feeling it’, and both you and the Doctor have expressed your concern. Is this interrogation quite mandatory, Captain?”

“It could be,” Jim said seriously, “but then you’d have to talk to Bones, he’s the one with psychology certification.”

Spock had even less wish to submit himself to an official psychological evaluation than he had to be investigated by Jim, so he did not protest further.

“Do you feel anything other than disturbed? Bones had been in danger before, he’s been missing before, did you feel the same then?”

Spock had to admit he had not, but then Doctor McCoy had hardly been missing for such a length of time before either, so it was not an exact comparison.

“And you don’t feel this way about anyone else?”

Spock frowned. “Captain, I must protest your phrasing.”

Jim raised his eyebrows.

“I feel differently about every individual I know personally.”

This comment, for some reason, inspired exasperation in Jim, and they lapsed into silence for a full minute.

Finally, he seemed to come to some sort of decision within himself and he sat up straighter with an apparent renewed sense of purpose. “Spock,” he said, “have you been making an effort to be nicer, less argumentative, with Bones lately?”

“No,” Spock replied, and it was the truth.

“But you have been arguing less.”

“We have,” and that was also the truth.

“He’s been trying to pick at you, he told me, and you aren’t responding. Did you notice?”

Spock blinked, he had noticed that Doctor McCoy was increasingly talkative, but he had not noticed a qualitative change in their interactions. McCoy was as impossible to understand as ever. Jim obviously took his silence to be enough of an answer.

“When he was missing, was there anything you wanted to say to him?”

A most perplexing question, for there had been many things Spock had wished to say to McCoy. He had wished to ask him about the experience of being outside of time, but of course, McCoy remembered none of it, for he had not truly experienced it. He had wished to engage McCoy in debate, for often their discussions prompted new avenues of thought that did not come so easily without McCoy’s irritating pestering. When Spock had thought him lost, he had wished very much that he had previously expressed to McCoy the depth of their friendship from his perspective, because while he assumed McCoy understood that their frequent bickering was meant in the spirit of light hearted companionship, humans often needed frequent reassurances of such facts. It had been weeks, at least, since Spock had expressed his genuine appreciation for McCoy’s presence. But it was illogical to concern himself with what McCoy might or might not have thought about Spock’s expressions of friendship, or lack thereof, when McCoy was dematerialized outside of the fabric of spacetime, and therefore utterly unable to think anything at all.

“Yes,” Spock said.

Jim seemed pleased. “And now he’s back, have you told him?”

Spock had not.

“Then do so, Mister Spock, that’s an order, if it makes it easier.”

—

“Doctor,” Spock said. McCoy looked up from his desk, the bland, vague frown he wore morphed into bland professional inquiry.

“Mister Spock, can I help you?”

There were several PADDs on McCoy’s desk, and a pile of patient charts, but McCoy was attending to neither of them. His attention was focused on the computer terminal in front of him, and as Spock entered the room, he had glanced at the readout, now he frowned again.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your work,” Spock said, but McCoy only sighed and set the computer on stand-by.

“It’s alright, I’m not getting anywhere anyways. The lab’s sending me their analysis, and it doesn’t match our readings from the surface,” McCoy told him, “I’ll have to go over there myself after my first patient, but I have a minute now. What is it?”

“If you were concerned for my psychological health, there was no need to approach it in such a roundabout fashion as employing the Captain.”

“Wasn’t there?” McCoy asked, nearly flippant, and Spock found himself fighting irritation. It was obviously not an opportune moment to follow Jim's advice, but postponing his task would not make it more pleasant.

“The Captain made it clear I should make you aware of several facts. I trust I need not explain the Vulcan perspective on emotional experience and control.” McCoy’s eyebrows drew in in confusion but he shook his head.

Spock continued, “In the time you were trapped in the anomaly, I experienced concern for your safety as my friend and fellow officer,—”

“Well I’m flattered Mister Spock—”

“—alongside several other emotional responses to the situation which I had not anticipated. I have not yet determined why I reacted as I did, and I am continuing in my efforts to discover the cause. If I appear distracted, perhaps that is why.”

After a short pause, McCoy said, “And you’ve never been one to avail yourself of the counseling services offered on this ship.” It was the sort of statement that would normally have been delivered with some dry humor, but McCoy’s affect was one of slight, but genuine, puzzlement.

“I don’t believe I have ever had a need for them. I find personal meditation sufficient.”

“And in this case?” McCoy asked, crossing his arms.

Spock did not appreciate the repeat of Jim’s questioning from the previous night. “In this case I’m still in the process of evaluating my response.”

“Well how far have you gotten?”

Spock glared at him, and McCoy met his gaze, unimpressed, and certainly unintimidated. McCoy was not a man to be intimidated. “I have addressed the normal responses to such an occurrence, additionally, I have put aside my frustration during the episode. Will that be quite all, Doctor?”

McCoy threw a hand up, not pleased, but said, “I suppose it has to be. I have a patient.”

Spock nodded, and took his leave.

—

Meditation continued to prove unhelpful. It was possible to dissect, name, and discard the individual feelings he experienced in given moments, but they did not provide him with insight as to his continued disturbance. Nevertheless, he persisted in his practice. On that fourth day, he had become distracted. Prior to that he had been feeling many things that were logical and appropriate for the situation, confusion and curiosity, for the intellectual problem he had to solve; concern, for McCoy and Lineas’s safety, for Jim and the crew’s well-being; and urgency. He had been running out of time.

The thought that he might fail at his task to return them safely to the  _ Enterprise  _ brought shame and guilt, unhelpful, but a logical response to failure when the stakes, so to speak, were so high. It also brought grief, primarily at the potentially permanent loss of someone he considered a friend and valued crewmate. That grief and distress were logical, but their intensity was not, nor was their seemingly random occurrence. The fact that he had allowed such feelings to prove a distraction was also illogical. Yet that was how it had been. Additionally, they were still a distraction, and McCoy’s life was no longer in danger.

He had felt relief, even joy, upon McCoy’s return, logical and acceptable emotions, if unacceptably intense. Why had the relief not quelled his distress? Why did his acknowledgement and dismissal of each emotion not remove it from his mind as it did with the others? Spock did not know.

There was simply nothing to be done. Spock could and did meditate each night in an effort to regain his emotional mastery. When he had spare time, he utilized other meditation techniques designed specifically for periods of greater stress. He did not discern that their practice had any greater benefit. For all his efforts, he could not discover the root cause of his anomalous reaction, and that caused him further distress that required management. His work, as he had promised Jim, did not suffer, but the irritation persisted.

—

The realization that he was in love with Doctor McCoy came abruptly and without warning. Doctor McCoy himself was not even in the room. He had left the lab fifty-two seconds ago and they had not spoken in thirteen minutes eight seconds. The sudden understanding pulled him from his inspection of the alien prions he and McCoy were studying. For all McCoy and Jim enjoyed comparing him to a computer, it did feel remarkably like the notification from a program that had been running in the background and had finally completed its task, but had taken so long doing so he had quite forgotten it was still active.

Yes, whatever piece of his mind informed him, you are indeed in love with Doctor McCoy. It was a startling answer, all the more so for the fact that it was by no means a question he had consciously considered. None of his careful self-analysis or meditation practice had led him to evaluate the nature of his attachment to McCoy. Yet it was an answer, and a cursory reflection on the implications of such an attachment were notably similar to his troubles.

Spock considered the sample in front of him. Doctor McCoy reentered the room with the old set of samples and another PADD. He set them by his workstation and continued his own analysis. Spock allowed himself a moment to stare at McCoy’s back and consider his response. Nothing felt different. He returned to his work.

—

Spock continued to monitor his reactions to McCoy. As far as he could tell, nothing about them had changed from before he was made aware of his regard. He had already known McCoy was an admired friend, and Spock had few such friends, he was sure Jim’s loss would be equally significant, and yet. Additionally, being in love, in the manner he was forced to reluctantly conclude he was, was a human concept, an English phrase for which there were rough Vulcan equivalents. It was a new task with which to distract himself for a moment, cataloguing appropriate descriptions of his feeling in Vulcan terms. He applied himself to it with determination.

It felt right to refer to McCoy, or to Jim, with a variety of terms for family. They were, Spock could admit to himself, though he would not have wished to say so aloud to anyone, k'war'ma'khon, and as such, were loved. But Spock’s understanding of love, as it was meant in Vulcan, was not specific enough to provide an adequate translation. There were other concepts, endearments, but t’hy’la, the only that it was even possibly socially acceptable to consider using, did not seem to carry the same connotations as the human concept of being in love. Jim, perhaps, was t’hy’la, for he was undoubtedly Spock’s family, and his friend for life.

McCoy though, the endearment k’diwa came to mind, and the phrase it was shortened from, k'hat'n'dlawa, as much as Spock could feel himself blushing, in the privacy of his own room, even to think it. Then perhaps they were accurate. McCoy did provide a challenge. So deeply grounded in emotion, and yet in his own way just as attached to logical reason as Spock was, he was someone in whom Spock found balance. The other half in a relationship that did not exist in such a sense.

Unfortunately, the sense of rightness and correctness that accompanied such labels did not address his continued upset at McCoy’s recent brush with death. It frustrated him. What use was knowing, he asked himself, if it changed nothing?

—

But it did change something. His sleep was no longer interrupted. Any reactions to McCoy’s presence in his day had a name and a place and could be set aside and neatly labeled.

When Spock felt his chest constrict as McCoy smiled at him, he noted the sensation and removed it from himself. During his chess games with Jim, when McCoy observed and their combined contentment radiated throughout the room, Spock took care to keep his calculations and strategy at the forefront of his mind, lest he get distracted and find himself gazing at McCoy instead of the board.

In the evenings, when he returned to his quarters and settled into meditation, he reviewed the events of the day, sorting each memory and significant emotion in its rightful ordered place. Longing became ubiquitous. 

The most irritating aspect of the whole ordeal, if Spock were in a mood to admit to irritation, was that he and McCoy so easily fell into a pattern of conversation quite similar to flirtation. Worse, while it left Spock flushed and agitated, (he suspected McCoy would term it ‘hot and bothered’, which was reason enough never to admit to such feelings), McCoy clearly thought little of it. It was simply characteristic of his interactions with his friends, of which number Spock was honored to be considered. But it wasn’t quite what he wanted.

—

The breeze whisked Spock’s dirt sample into his face. He heard someone next to him curse softly. When he blinked the grit from his eyelashes, Ensign Parthasarathy was glaring at their sample tray.

“I need a new bug.” She closed the lid and took her kit off towards the edge of the crater.

Spock bent back down to inspect the tiny remnants of impact glass he had found. The planet itself was extremely pleasant. Its sun shone with a warm yellowish light, the plants used some chemical that gave them all a distinct red to pinkish coloration, which Spock found reminiscent of many native plants on Vulcan. Picturesque and M class, it was attractive enough that even McCoy had been pleased to be assigned to the landing party in order to spend some time outdoors.

He was on a different site than Spock’s party, which was not of any relevance to Spock at all. They did not often spend their shifts together, and this was no cause to be disappointed.

The yeoman, Davidson, overseeing the data entry at their portable computer terminal, waved him over. “Commander Spock!”

Spock left his tricorder and his sample kit where he had been.

“Yes?”

“The eastern ridge of the crater has been flagged as a—”

The beep of the communicator interrupted him. “Sulu to Enterprise, emergency medical beam up for Doctor McCoy.”

Spock’s stomach seemed to drop out of him. In the background, someone was screaming.

“Enterprise, Doctor McCoy and who?” someone asked, the transporter operator, presumably.

“Just Doctor McCoy,” Sulu replied, “he took a bad fall, he has his communicator on him.” The screaming in the background stopped abruptly.

“We’ve got him,” _ Enterprise  _ confirmed.

_ McCoy _ .

Spock blinked back into the present moment. Panic. It was an unfamiliar feeling. His heart rate was up and his breathing quickened. He wanted to call the ship to have himself beamed up to sickbay as well, although it was an entirely illogical reaction.

Yeoman Davidson spoke after several seconds of silence. “The eastern ridge of the crater has been flagged for rock fall. Lieutenant Oyenusi is moving her sample section away from the edge just in case.”

It was as if Sulu’s conversation with  _ Enterprise  _ had wiped Spock’s mind clean. He struggled to remember where everyone had been assigned. That was unacceptable, he needed to focus.

“I am going to beam aboard and begin processing the samples we have collected so far.”

Davidson nodded. “Ensign Parthasarathy is almost done with that second box, then we’ll have a full dozen for the crate.”

Spock nodded as well, and hid his impatience while he returned to his equipment and packed up. Ensign Parthasarathy was closing her specimen box. “I can take that for you, Ensign,” Spock told her.

She seemed surprised but handed it over willingly and moved on with her next collection kit. Spock returned to where Davidson had stacked the crate with space for Parthasarathy’s box at the top. He stood back and let Spock fit it in and close the lid.

“Davidson to  _ Enterprise _ , Commander Spock is ready to beam up with our first sample crate.”

“ _ Enterprise _ , stand by for transport.”

The familiar sensation washed over him and before Spock could blink, he was back on board. “Have this taken this to the geology labs, I have something to attend to, I will meet you there,” he told Yeoman Nguyen, who was waiting in the transporter room to facilitate sample distribution and landing party equipment needs. Before the woman could finish making note of it, Spock was gone.

He would simply check on McCoy’s status. That was all. There was no need to hurry, but Spock found himself dodging crewmembers as he made his way through the hallway to sickbay. Even as he arrived his mind was catching up with his actions. If McCoy was severely injured, he would likely still be in surgery and Spock would not have the chance to ask about his prognosis. If it was truly grave, Spock at least wanted to know.

There was no one to see him run the last few steps. The doors flew open with their typical quiet hiss and Spock wondered which operating room McCoy would have been taken to, left or right, he needed to find Nurse Chapel and—

“Mister Spock?”

She was standing by a cabinet, holding a box under her arm.

“Is everything alright?”

“Spock?” That was McCoy’s voice. The closest curtain around the biobed was pulled back. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

He looked fine. Spock’s heart was beating uncomfortably quickly, and he was beginning to feel very foolish.

“Spock! Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” he said, and was glad his voice was even. McCoy was wearing a patient wrap over his uniform shirt, it seemed. A tray table over his lap only partially obscured an osteoregenerator over his right knee. “You were injured?”

McCoy frowned at him severely. “Don’t run in here like that, scaring us half to death. I’m fine. Cliff eroded under me and I slid down the whole muddy hill. Mild concussion and I tore my knee up. Perfect excuse to catch up on paperwork. What are you doing here?”

“I beamed back aboard with our first full crate of samples to begin categorization and processing.”

McCoy waited a second, raised an eyebrow for Spock to go on. Spock had nothing else to say.

“And why are you here in my sickbay in such a rush?”

For that, he had no excuse. “Have your samples been processed?”

McCoy’s frown deepened even further. “Yes, presumably Yeoman Nguyen and the team in the labs are still able to do their jobs.”

“Very well,” Spock said. “I will see you at dinner.”

“Who’s leading your landing party now?” McCoy asked.

“I am,” Spock said, and left almost as quickly as he had arrived, pretending not to notice McCoy and Chapel exchanging baffled looks as the door closed behind him.

The situation was untenable.

Spock checked in with the labs long enough to ensure that the processing had begun properly, then beamed back down to his landing party and stayed on the planet’s surface until the sun went down and his shift was mere minutes from ending. Sample collection was a mindless enough task that he could afford to dedicate some mental energy to the problem of McCoy. It was simply not acceptable for McCoy’s fragility as a mortal being to interfere with his work in such a way. Spock did not enjoy the intensity of emotion McCoy elicited from him. It overwhelmed his control just as it had before he knew what the feelings meant. That was especially irritating because if naming and acknowledging the experience was not sufficient for him to be able to control it, he would have to spend time and effort on other measures.

McCoy watched him during dinner.

Spock ignored it, grateful that Jim seemed not to notice.

“It will be a day, maybe two, of travel. Depends on how much we can convince Scotty to push the engines.”

“Mister Scott will not want to push the engines if there is no emergency,” Spock said.

McCoy’s mouth was full, but he shook his head, which Spock interpreted as agreement.

“If we’re too slow, the system’s solar activity could be over with by the time we get there.”

“A day and a half.”

Jim smiled. “I think I can convince Scotty to give us that.”

Mister Scott himself drifted over then, conjured by his name. “Give you what?”

Jim then launched into his persuasive argument about the importance of arriving at the solar system with haste, and Mister Scott paled dramatically at his proposal.

“A day or less? Captain are you mad? By the time we get there the ship—we’d need at least six hours for maintenance on the—”

Jim caught Spock’s eye and winked.

Their performance garnered some amusement from the room at large, and Spock kept half an ear on the conversation, amused by Scott’s vehement protests and Jim’s dramatic form of bargaining while he finished his broccoli. He looked up, expecting all attention to be on the discussion still, and found McCoy watching him. Again.

“You coming to play poker with us tonight?”

“I have no other obligations,” Spock said. He was not highly skilled at poker, but he understood it’s social value. The enjoyment it brought Jim and McCoy to teach him was neither here nor there in regards to Spock’s willingness to play.

“You’ve got to give me at least 36 hours, Captain,” Mister Scott complained.

“A day and a half.”

“Aye. Any less and we’ll be above warp eight for—”

“Alright Mister Scott have it your way.”

Scott frowned at Jim. “Have it the engine’s way. Right then. See you in the rec room later?”

“We’ll be there,” Jim promised.

Mister Scott was still mumbling as he left, “. . . does it just to wind me up he does. Under a day! And if we could keep that up, we’d get across the entire bloody quadrant in two! What does he think . . .”

Jim was grinning.

“Fold,” Mister Scott said, and Jim shook his head in mock disapproval. Spock’s ace and two of hearts lay face down on the table.

“Call.” That met with Jim’s approval.

“Call,” McCoy said as well.

“Raise.”

“Confident are we?” Mister Scott asked.

Jim grinned.

“Call,” Spock said, and added his chips to the pile. It was very difficult to tell when Jim was bluffing.

McCoy rolled his eyes but added his chips to the pile. The flop was laid out. A jack, a five, and two, all spades.

“Fold.”

“All in,” McCoy said, eyes on Jim. They stared at each other for several seconds, Jim eying McCoy, McCoy, both eyebrows just slightly raised.

“Fold.”

McCoy grinned and collected his winnings.

“What was your hand?” Spock asked. Several people behind him were muttering.

“I’m not telling you.”

Spock tried not to frown as the cards were shuffled and redealt. It was difficult to keep his focus on his cards and not on McCoy’s hands. They were always in motion, fiddling with his cards, tapping a chip on the table, flicking his whiskey. The accompanying noise, that quiet  _ tinktinktink _ of fingernail on glass, made it hard to concentrate.

It was getting more difficult as the night went on and Spock’s interest in the game itself waned. Jim discouraged him from counting cards or calculating percentages, but Spock had no other strategy with which to play the game. Even employing these strategies, he found himself losing frequently. He had not yet developed an algorithm to help him analyze the behaviors of his fellow players. McCoy, who had no objections to him counting cards, (that had made for an interesting argument between Jim and McCoy), claimed that using statistics to predict player behavior was not in the spirit of the game. He told Spock to think with his gut. Spock had not had much luck with that strategy either.

A mere fifteen minutes later the group dispersed. The game was put back in the rec room storage closet and Mister Scott and Jim drifted off as Spock dawdled putting the snacks away by the synthesizer.

“Hey,” McCoy said quietly from behind him. “Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

McCoy led him to a conference room a short ways down the hall, and immediately ordered a mug of tea, looking back and ordering a second when Spock nodded. The synthesizer produced two mugs and McCoy took his to the table. Spock took his mug but did not drink, waiting for the water to cool or for McCoy to open a topic of discussion.

“Something’s going on and I don’t understand it,” McCoy said.

“In what area?”

“Between us.”

That was an ominous pronouncement. Spock sipped his tea to have something to do with his mouth that did not involve responding. “Please clarify.”

McCoy’s tea steamed next to his hip where he was leaning against the table, arms crossed. “Well I can’t figure it out. I don’t think you’re angry with me. You’re not sick. Jim’s acting normal. Today I can’t turn around without bumping into you and tomorrow you’re avoiding me like it’s your job. So what’s going on?”

“I have not yet had the chance to avoid you tomorrow,” Spock pointed out. The admittedly rather pitiful attempt at diversion did not impress McCoy. Spock sighed. “I apologize for the somewhat mercurial nature of my behavior. Is that sufficient?”

“I’m not asking for an apology,” McCoy said. “And if it’s too personal, fine, I’m not asking for the details.”

“It is personal.”

“Your family?”

McCoy had just said he would not ask for details.

Spock looked down. “If I consider you and Jim to be included, yes.”

There was a short silence. Spock sipped his tea and did not look at McCoy. He waited until McCoy huffed in the way he did when settling in for a long discussion and waited some more for them both to drink more tea. It was personal, and he had not figured out what he wanted to do about it. He would ask for McCoy’s input on the matter if McCoy himself were not the one involved. Although—Spock glanced up quickly and found McCoy watching him patiently—would it be so bad to inform him regardless? McCoy saw him looking and raised an eyebrow. Spock took a breath.

Then he said, “Ashau nash-veh tu.” 

McCoy kept silent, still waiting, and finally Spock had to look away, heart pounding.

“You know I don’t remember anything from language in school. You want to translate that for me or should I look it up?”

“Perhaps you should look it up,” Spock said.

“Ashau nash-veh tu,” McCoy repeated, with a strong accent over the sounds he did not often have cause to pronounce.

“Yes.” Spock repeated it once more and McCoy spelled the transliteration correctly, and then stood straight off the table.

“Alright. Then I’m going to head to bed.”

Spock wasn’t sure what he had expected. “Very well. Goodnight, Doctor.”

Spock suppressed his anxiety throughout breakfast, his first half shift in the labs, and lunch, but McCoy did not appear. The afternoon shift on the bridge, despite being much less intellectually challenging, brought him respite, as he could not imagine McCoy confronting him in public. Jim stopped in to chat between meetings and update them on the plans for the coming weeks, then retreated to the ready room with a sigh and a refill on his coffee.

Transit made for calm shifts. Spock watched the stars pass on the viewscreen and made his mental rounds, alarm system to alarm system, but all were quiet. Chekov and Sulu were attentive to their posts as necessary, but mostly kept up a low murmur of idle conversation back and forth. Spock checked the long-range sensors again.

At the comms panel, Uhura had taken advantage of the break to clean and do maintenance on the switches. Mister Scott delivered her tools himself, then hung around to talk. The engines were handling the apparent great stress with characteristic ease.

Spock checked the shields, both automatic and manual systems, which responded exactly as they should.

At dinner, he had to face McCoy.

He was already there when Spock arrived, sitting with Jim and Yeoman Rand. He smiled widely at Spock and gestured at the seat next to him. The room was not particularly warm, it never was, but Spock felt his shirts constricting him, and wished for a breeze. Without acknowledging the sensation, Spock took his tray and sat down across from Jim, greeted with smiles from him and Rand too.

“Evening,” Jim said.

There was an unassigned office close to the mess hall. Spock led them there to speak privately. McCoy followed him without question. When the door closed, Spock did not have to wait nor figure out how to broach the subject. McCoy said immediately, “Why didn’t you give me the translation yesterday?”

Cowardice was the majority of the real answer, but Spock said, “I imagined you would appreciate time to decide your reaction.”

“You’re not wrong about that. I thought I’d got the translation wrong at first.”

“And when you determined the correct meaning?”

Spock was doing his best not to come across as impatient. He was doing his best to stay above all of his emotional reactions to the conversation, although anxiety and embarrassment threatened his control. Making things worse was that McCoy appeared quite calm.

“I was surprised,” McCoy said. “It’s not what I was expecting at all. I don’t mean to minimize it, but I’m not sure that I understand.”

Unless McCoy’s research was uncharacteristically sloppy, he would not have missed the romantic implications of the phrase. Spock did not particularly want to bare himself like this but he saw the logic in McCoy’s gentle request for a more complete explanation.

“Several weeks ago you and Ensign Lineas were trapped within an anomaly. I, became highly distressed.” His investment in McCoy’s well-being terrified him and he wished McCoy would look away so as not to bear witness to the emotional display he could not prevent. “In the period following that incident I discovered that my regard for you surpasses the friendship that we share. As it has continued to affect my behavior around you, I thought it reasonable that you should be informed.”

“I suppose it does explain a few things,” McCoy said finally, when Spock was beginning to succumb to regret. “I do remember you told me something about it at the time, but I never would have guessed.”

“I do not require your reciprocation,” Spock said.

“Of course not. But you’d like it.”

That, Spock could not deny. He bit the inside of his lip without thinking, and realized belatedly McCoy could certainly tell.

“This isn’t a rejection,” McCoy said. When Spock’s eyes snapped upwards McCoy was still looking at him. He couldn’t read whatever it was McCoy was trying to tell him via intense eye contact, but there was something. “It’s hard to have a relationship on a starship, and we’re both senior officers, if we couldn’t work together for some reason. . .”

Spock did not say anything in the silence that followed McCoy’s unfinished sentence. McCoy clearly wished him to, but  _ what _ Spock was supposed to say was still too unclear. He could make an inference, but guessing was not in Spock’s nature.

“I’ve always tried to avoid pining for my superiors.”

If McCoy had not prefaced his speech by denying it being a rejection, Spock would not have dared make his next statement. “I was unaware you consider me a superior.” 

One eyebrow went up. “If we were in a relationship, it wouldn’t be pining.”

“And to your earlier point about the difficulty of relationships on a starship?”

Finally, McCoy looked down. “I do my best to keep things professional, but I’m a human first, Mister Spock. That’s for you to decide.” He looked up again suddenly. “I’m not in love with you, yet.”

The single word stole the air from Spock’s lungs. He had to take another breath before responding. “I understand.”

In his own quarters that night, in meditation, Spock thought of change.

The next day, he took an early lunch and stopped in hydroponics.

“Any stone fruits are in season,” the ensign in charge that period told him. “You have enough unused credit for the maximum. That’s five.”

He made it to McCoy’s office just before the Doctor’s own lunch period began. McCoy was apparently just finishing with a patient, so Spock waited. He startled when he entered, dropping a PADD.

“Spock, was I expecting you?”

Spock stood from the guest chair and held out the bag. “I accept that our working relationship may be changed, and that it may sometimes be impossible to maintain our previous standard of professionalism. If you are still amenable to the idea.”

“Our standard of professionalism’s always been a bit questionable anyway,” McCoy said. He took the bag and smiled widely as he brought out an apricot. “You didn’t synthesize this.”

“I did not.”

Spock could almost feel the warmth of McCoy’s expression.

“Will you have lunch with me, Mister Spock?”

On the second day Spock took a plum to breakfast. McCoy told him it was sweet and Jim said nothing but watched them with a calculating expression.

On the third day McCoy insisted Spock share the mango. It dripped juice all over their hands and McCoy appeared slightly disappointed when Spock brought wet napkins for them to clean their hands.

On the fourth day Jim turned to him in the turbolift.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Pardon?” Spock’s mind was full of geographical survey data. “No, planetary sciences is still in the process of determining the chemical makeup of the planet’s core.”

Jim nodded. The doors opened and McCoy stepped inside.

“Bones, how are you?”

“Fine, Jim. Spock.”

They continued their descent towards the mess, and Spock saw Jim grinning at the floor. Oh.

“Yes, I did figure it out, Captain.”

McCoy was at his door before breakfast on the fifth morning.

Spock let him in, not quite dressed and unsure of what was appropriate. “Leonard?”

It was only the third occasion he had found to use McCoy’s given name. Each time McCoy’s face broke into an unconscious pleased smile, one Spock had immediately decided he wished to see more often.

“I’m going to be stuck in sickbay all day today. We have a long surgery.”

Spock looked at his desk automatically. The paper bag with today’s gift was waiting. “Then I will give you this now, so you can eat it at your convenience.”

McCoy held the peach in his hand, testing its softness and its smell. “It’s ripe now. Will you share it with me?”

He took a bite and Spock watched juice drip on his fingers. The fruit was held up to him and Spock did his best to take a bite without creating more mess, but it was too soft and juice ran down the skin of the peach as he pulled back. It covered his own hands when he brought them up to catch the drips. McCoy said nothing.

It was difficult to eat, especially passed back and forth between them. Spock did not know if this was a ritual or simply McCoy’s personal interest. Sharing the fruit kept a distance between them as they were forced to allow some juice to fall on the floor to spare their uniforms. When it was only a pit, both of their hands and faces were sticky. Spock wanted to kiss him.

McCoy held his hands out to the sides, avoiding his uniform. Spock stepped forward carefully, so as to keep from stepping in any juice, and McCoy met him halfway. The only thing Spock could taste was peach.

“Will I see you after shift?”

“I’m probably going to skip the rec room tonight.”

“Very well.”

They washed in the sink and when McCoy was clean he turned to leave as Spock still needed to finish dressing.

“Leonard, wait.” There it was again, that smile that was coming to be his favorite. “With your skill in medicine, you do not need it, however—” Spock stepped into McCoy’s space by the door.

“Need what?”

The last word was mumbled against Spock’s lips. The kiss lasted only a second before Spock pulled away.

“Good luck.”

**Author's Note:**

> From https://www.starbase-10.de/vld/  
> k'war'ma'khon -extended family, as close as family but not genetically related, vibration of extended family, the mental linking of one Vulcan to another; the being of one people, one world  
> t'hy'la -friend/life friend, friend-lover-lifelong companion, blood brother/sister; soulmate; soul-brother/sister  
> k'diwa -shortened form of address for beings who are each other's k'hat'n'dlawa; equated to the Terran term "beloved"  
> k'hat'n'dlawa -one who is 'half of my heart and soul in its deepest sense; became unfashionable after Reformation because of its emotional connotation (anc.)
> 
> I did my best to construct this using the VLD and examples of Vulcan grammar  
> Ashau nash-veh tu -I love you


End file.
